At the head of the table sat the Countess, full of asides to the butler, and peering remorselessly at everybody's plate. When you took a portion of a dish she watched anxiously, to appraise quantity.
On her right, nearly opposite me, sat a tall dark gentleman. With his pointed little beard, suave voice and exaggerated manners, I decided he was a villain: a true French villain. I disliked him at once: his eyes told me he knew it, and they reciprocated. His hard eyes (though dark instead of blue), identical beard (though black instead of yellow), treacly eyes and cat-like gesture, all reminded me of Uncle Simeon. I soon learnt that his name was de Fouquier; he was a cousin of the late Count's and steward for the family estates. Like the Count, he had played some part in the coup d'état which had placed the reigning Emperor on the throne. He spent most of the year at the Château, living as one of the family.
Next to him, and immediately opposite me was my principal charge, Mademoiselle Suzanne: a big healthy young woman, a few months younger than myself, but a year or two older in appearance. She was fair-haired, big-featured and bright-eyed. A large mouth with full red lips proclaimed her sister to Maud—and daughter to Eve. She was lively, kind and perhaps stupid. She was always laughing.
At the end of the table, facing the Countess and immediately on my left, sat Mademoiselle Elise, the elder daughter. She was unhealthily pale; her eyes were fixed-looking, with dark rims underneath, as though she hardly slept. The oddest feature was the forehead, high and of a marble whiteness that made the blue veins stand out. There was something cross and soured in her expression: also something miserable that reminded me of myself—the first condition of sympathy.
Finally, beside me, and on the Countess' left, sat a wizened little woman, a tinier edition of the tiny Countess, but sallower, uglier and sharper-featured: ferret rather than dormouse. A pair of enormous blue spectacles enabled her to observe without being observed. She was the Countess' lady-companion. Her name, absurdly enough, was Mademoiselle Gros.
The plainness and ordinariness of them all was what struck me most. I had pictured stately and distinguished persons—grand, noble, French—and here was a company quite as ugly and plebeian as the Meeting. No one fulfilled my notion of aristocrats! No one resembled the Stranger.
After luncheon, Mademoiselle Suzanne came up to my rooms to help me unpack. She prattled ceaselessly, in English, which she spoke well, though I found reason to correct her every few moments and thus to begin my duties.
"I shall like you, I know. I hated Miss Jayne: that's our governess when we were little: she was very ugly and severe. I teased her all I dared. Once I kicked her, but I was only nine. Mademoiselle Soyer, who taught us last, was really French, though her mother was English, so she doesn't count. Our other governesses were all French; but" (quickly) "you are not a governess of course; you are to be a friend. I am sure you will like it with us: You can do whatever you want: ride—you do ride?—go to picnics and excursions; there are very pretty places near here. I am so glad you are not what I feared. Your cousin[!] Lord Tawborough told Mamma you were so clever. And some English women, you know—you know what I mean. But we shall be friends, real friends, I know it."
"Do you?" thought I. "You are friendly and kind, but not at all like that unknown thing I hoped so hard to find, a real friend of my own age and sex, whom I could be free with, confide in—not love, for that there is only Robbie—who could sometimes take the place of the Other Me in my talks and visions, who could end the loneliness."
She paused in her babyish fiddling with my possessions. "What are you thinking about? You are not listening."